Crimson Collapse- The Story Behind Bakon’s Scars

Crimson Collapse- the story behind Bakon’s scars

Trigger warning: gore and mentions of death

Setting: a few days before Stanford reached out to Stan.

(Old artwork at the end)

The job should have been simple—a quick in-and-out heist in a crumbling old building said to house a fortune in abandoned goods. Bakon and his crew had scoped the place out for weeks, but on that fateful night, things fell apart in the worst way imaginable. The building, far more unstable than they had planned for, became a death trap.

The air inside was heavy with the stench of mildew and decay, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the silence. Bakon moved cautiously, his flashlight flickering against the cracked plaster walls and rusted pipes that jutted out like jagged teeth. He could feel the structure groaning under its own weight, the faint tremor of instability rippling through the floor beneath his boots.

Then it happened.

The ceiling gave way in an instant, unleashing a hellish cacophony of splintering wood and screeching metal. Bakon didn’t even have time to scream. A massive beam crashed down, driving him to the ground as his legs folded unnaturally beneath him with a sickening snap. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he let out a ragged gasp as sharp debris rained down, tearing into his flesh. A jagged piece of rusted rebar impaled him clean through the abdomen, bursting out of his back with a wet, nauseating sound.

The pain was beyond anything he had ever experienced—an excruciating, fiery agony that sent shockwaves through his entire body. Blood poured from the wound in heavy gushes, pooling beneath him in a sticky, crimson puddle. He tried to move, but the weight of the debris was crushing him. His ribs bent unnaturally inward, cracked and splintered like broken glass stabbing into his lungs.

Bakon’s cries for help were hoarse and broken, each breath a struggle as blood filled his mouth. His flashlight had fallen to the ground, illuminating his twisted, mangled body in cruel detail. He could see the jagged bone of his shin protruding through torn flesh, the white stark against the red. His hands, trembling and pale, weakly clawed at the rubble pinning him down, but it was no use.

Minutes dragged into hours, and Bakon’s screams turned to whimpers, then silence. The blood loss was making him lightheaded, his vision darkening at the edges as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The cold, metallic tang of blood filled his mouth as he coughed weakly, spitting out a thick, congealed glob that stained the ground beside him.

He called for the others—desperate, pleading cries that echoed through the empty corridors—but no one came. His crew had abandoned him, fleeing the moment the collapse started. Even Stanley, the one person he trusted, was nowhere to be found. Alone in the suffocating darkness, Bakon’s thoughts grew frantic. Anguish and rage churned within him, mixing with the raw, primal terror of death creeping closer.

When they finally found him, Bakon was barely alive. His skin was pale and waxy, his lips blue, and his body convulsed weakly as his pulse flickered on the edge of nothingness. They rushed him to the hospital, the paramedics’ voices a distant murmur in his ears. He could feel their hands on him, the searing pain as they moved the rebar from his side, and the choking sensation of a tube being shoved down his throat.

In the operating room, his body gave out. His heart stopped, and for over an hour, Bakon was dead.

Death was not a peaceful void for him. It was cold, dark, and suffocating. Time warped, stretching into an infinite expanse of emptiness where Bakon felt the weight of his failures crushing him all over again. The silence was maddening, his own thoughts clawing at him like feral beasts. He was utterly alone, trapped in a limbo that felt like an eternity.

And then, against all odds, he was pulled back.

When Bakon woke, his body was a patchwork of scars and pain. Tubes snaked out of his arms, his chest, his throat. His legs were in heavy casts, and every shallow breath sent a sharp, burning pain through his shattered ribs. His face was gaunt, pale, and his sunken eyes stared blankly at the hospital ceiling.

The weeks that followed were a nightmare of their own. The physical therapy was brutal, each session leaving him sobbing in pain. His hands trembled as he tried to grasp a spoon, the simplest tasks requiring monumental effort. The rebar had shredded vital nerves, leaving parts of his body unresponsive, numb yet searing with phantom pain.

Worse still was the isolation. No one came to see him. He lay in that sterile room day after day, the hum of machines his only company. He thought of Stanley often, the bitterness festering in his chest. Stanley had abandoned him, left him to die, and now Bakon was trapped in this ruined shell of a body with nothing but his anger to keep him going.

Months later, when he finally left the hospital, Bakon was unrecognizable. His once-proud posture was hunched, his gait stiff and uneven as he limped out into the world. The scars on his face and body told the story of his suffering in jagged lines, and his eyes were cold, hollow, and filled with a simmering hatred.

Bakon had been given a second chance at life, but to him, it was no gift. It was a curse. And as he walked into the cold night, his mind turned dark with thoughts of vengeance. If the world had left him to rot, he would return the favor tenfold. And Stanley… Stanley the young man he loved will pay the price for abandoning him.